


GOT Simulation: Before AGOT 3

by CreativeLiterature



Series: GOT Simulation [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:01:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28523634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreativeLiterature/pseuds/CreativeLiterature
Summary: For a third time, a year before the events of AGOT, five friends decide a change is in order before the WOT5K. Short, light hearted and nonsensical.
Relationships: Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Oberyn Martell/Daemon Sand, Robert Baratheon/Margaery Tyrell, Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Series: GOT Simulation [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2089383
Kudos: 1





	GOT Simulation: Before AGOT 3

**PROLOGUE**

Adam looked at the simulation panel, hoping to choose someone who would benefit himself most. He had been first Loras, then Renly, but found not as much common cause as he would like.

Clara scanned the list, having been Dacey for her sword and Margaery for her family, but each came with its own pros and cons.

Max had enjoyed being Jaime, and toughening up Sam had been a task, but he had his sights set on being with someone so special he himself would need to prove equal to the task.

Grace had been Margaery so she might be beautiful, then Arya so she might have a fun sister and good family. But she experienced disappointment at these avenues so far.

Zoe was Brienne and then Lysa, a warrior either way with her arguments or sword put forth.

"I'm gonna be Robert," Max chose. "I'll get him in shape and find him a queen."

"He has a queen," Clara pointed out. "The slut Cersei."

"For now," Max turned to Adam. "Will you help me, cocka?"

Adam perused the options. He could be Varys, but without his manhood was quite too much. Ser Barristan whose loyalty was duty could turn any which way in Adam's hands, especially his skill with the sword was most useful. Petyr, however…

"I'll help you," Adam input his choice, beaming. He glanced round at the room making their selections and hoped to provide advice, but no offers were forthcoming and he wilted at that.

"I'll be Oberyn," Clara decided, who didn't want to be a maiden highborn beauty.

"Oberyn?" Adam panicked, as though Clara might not cope.

"What?" Clara asked, though it was a rhetorical question all the same.

"I'll be Catelyn," Zoe grimly decided, to Clara's swiftly curious look. "Jon needs a mother, and I want to start telling those men how to do their jobs."

"Good luck," Clara didn't mean it, however. She was enamoured of her purpose as a man who might do as he pleased, especially in the free-thinking Dorne.

"I'll be Sansa!" Grace chose, as though the lightbulb popped over her head all of a sudden. "She's beautiful and likes lemon cakes and can sing… "

"But you can't," Clara pointed out, rather harshly as Grace locked in her selection. "You can't even sew."

"That's not all Sansa is," Grace wilted at Clara's admonition, since she had already locked in her choice on the panel.

"They'll find out," Clara doubted very much Grace could fit in.

"Very well," Aemon clapped his hands, and their bodies began to dematerialise in the bright blue light. "Begin!"

Adam/PETYR

Adam woke in a small bedroom, off the chambers where moans and sighs could be heard. He was in one of the brothels Littlefinger owned, and apparently operating to capacity.

After a quick bath, the Myrish glass revealed a face which always looked mocking. A little beard, salting grey hair and a thin body, which Adam clothed in crimson and brown, neutral hues with the silver pin of the mockingbird.

As he exited the brothel and entered the bright sunlight of the day, he realised he had no honor guard to accompany him. There were spies in his employ, but he knew them not.

He trod his way up the rise and towards the Red Keep, where the gold cloaks permitted him entry on account of his being master of coin. He found his way to the small council chambers, where Jon Arryn sat centre table, Varys simpered and fussed in his lilac brocade with a knowing smile, and Pycelle shuffled along, his robes hanging. Stannis and Renly, the pair of Baratheon brothers arrived shortly after; an incongruous duo with one considerably more granite than the fanciful other.

"Lord Baelish," Renly greeted him, if nothing other than to be cordial, while the others knew him to be untrustworthy.

Jon Arryn was succinct and to the point, and bade they all sit down. He had originally brought Petyr from Gulltown on his wife's insistence; yet today was just another day as Hand for him.

"The king?" Adam ventured.

"Still in bed," Renly smirked. "It seems he has no want for company."

"Hold your tongue," Stannis advised smartly.

"Our beloved king has so many subjects," Varys tittered. "It is only fitting - "

"These are your women, Lord Baelish?" Pycelle directed the barb.

"I can't know everything, Grand Maester," Adam replied impertinently, not knowing the truth of it. He met certain glances from the small council which told him otherwise.

"Let us begin," Jon Arryn cut through the babble, as precise as a falcon's strike.

Clara/OBERYN

Clara woke up, feeling something immediately different in her. Lactic acid pumped in adrenaline, with long dark hair to her shoulders, a splayed rib cage with a flat stomach, stronger musculature and of course the obvious.

It almost felt a growth of some kind which required hot pincers in surgery, at her first molten sick thought. Her bladder was full, so when she vaunted off the canopy bed and into the garderobe, she preferred to squat as some men do, and felt it empty like no other appendage she had before.

Her chest was bare as though she had a masectomy, but then she may as well have had a sex change. In the basin which she filled with a jug of water, her reflection was anything but what she might be used to.

"Wow," Clara told herself, the sharp angular features of the salty Dornishman, his tensed snake like glance and stature, the power behind the sudden striking mechanism of her muscles, a different smell, a different feel. She was a woman trapped in a man's body.

The thought did not strike her as particularly pleasing.

Max/ROBERT

Max's first thought was to deal with business in the capital, but he had no precognition that he would awake with so many whores in the king's bed.

Sated as a man with only his sex drive could be, he lumbered out of bed, ignoring how much they must have been paid to handle his gut and his double chins and his wheezing stench.

Still, as king, he was bathed and clothed and promised himself to get in shape.

It was half noon when he made it to the small council chambers, Ser Barristan leading his escort but the chairs were pushed back and the table empty.

"Fuck me," Max echoed. "I need a drink."

But instead, he forced himself to march to the yard.

Grace/SANSA

Grace woke to the taste of snowflakes on her tongue.

Jumping up, her crimson hair and fair skin, she delighted that she was picture perfect as Sansa. A happy yip of decree and once she was bathed and dressed in northern colours, however drab and dark, she hurried down to meet the Stark family breaking their fast in the hall.

Zoe/CATELYN

"Sansa," Zoe authoritatively called over, beckoning to her eldest.

Grace went and sat beside her "mother", while her siblings frowned or glanced at each other at her unusual, spurious behaviour. Septa Mordane pursed her lips as Zoe took charge and directed the flow of food, noticing Theon and Jon to one side.

"Come join us," Zoe added, indicating that the sour bastard and smirking ward might join them at the high table.

"Where's Father?" Arya asked, and Zoe both liked her rebellious nature and disliked that it was her task to handle it, for she would bear the brunt of disciplining her.

"He left before I was up," Zoe told the table, glad not to wake beside him lest he grow his morning urges.

"My lady," maester Luwin came forth, as servants cleared the table and her children began to depart. "The shipment from White Harbor has arrived. And the cook would like to discuss… "

Adam/PETYR

Littlefinger's spies came in dribs and drabs at first. Of course, Adam knew not how to get in communication with them or what they would look like. Yet the allure of coin pressed them so, and varied reports came from gardeners or servants or ashy-faced boys who cleaned out fireplaces or mucked out chamber pots.

The state of the capital and of Westeros spoke only of the Usurper's reign on the throne, of minor lords jockeying for power, but little of the high lords who played their game of thrones.

But of Littlefinger's schemes, Adam had no interest. He was completely loyal to _this_ king.

Clara/OBERYN

Clara walked along the columned walkway leading to the Water Gardens, where fountains played and hedge rows adorned the boundaries. The lapping of the sea was a sight to behold, with the pebbled beach stretched out beyond.

She removed Oberyn's leather boots and stretched her toes luxuriantly in the sand, letting the waves wash over her ankles, wading in knee deep even as her breeches got soaked.

Glancing around, more than a little shy to remove her doublet, only an expanse of flat body with an innie belly button greeted her, nothing circumspect that the modern world might otherwise ostracise her for.

She walked back to the beach and lay down on the sand, the sun scorching as she shielded its gaze with her hand. The waves tickled her feet and she could hear a crab scuttling by, as gulls mewed in the sky overheard, white blotches on an otherwise perfect landscape.

Max/ROBERT

Max was sweating during the training, as he was even more fat than Samwell Tarly had been. He knew this would take no small amount of effort, and mere months would not suffice.

"You did well, Your Grace," spoke Barristan openly of the king's conduct. He was pleased to see the Demon of the Trident getting back into shape.

"I'm fat," Max pointed out the obvious, though no courtier but Cersei dare say so.

He had seen her glide out of the Red Keep, with her golden hair and emeralds and fair skin. She was incredible, but a lioness nonetheless. She didn't even notice him as she passed through the courtyard; if she had, doubtless she would scorn his attempts to try so.

But Cersei was farthest from his mind. He did not lust for her so much as he did another.

"Again!" Max demanded, drenched in sweat, but his sword came up to block his training partner's thrust.

Grace/SANSA

Grace sat in needlework class with Jeyne and Arya, presided over by septa Mordane who needed not to check Sansa's work who always was up to snuff.

Speaking of, Grace's forehead began to prickle with perspiration, anxiety a well inside her twisting knots as she could not thread the needle in the lines within the cloth. She stabbed and stabbed but she was only making it worse. Jeyne bent over and frowned to see Grace's handiwork.

"Are you feeling alright, Sansa?" she asked, tactlessly alerting the rest of the girls to her work.

"Hush now, Jeyne," Septa Mordane rebuked Jeyne, rose from where she had been investigating little Beth Cassel's sewing, and blanched to see Sansa's destroyed so.

"You must be feeling ill," Septa Mordane sniffed, not wanting to blurt out her obvious favouritism, yet all the same… "Sansa, you'd best go on a walk to recover yourself."

"Yes, septa," Grace laid her needlework done and unnecessarily curtsied to the room, feeling her face go hot already as she emerged out into the bracing air of Winterfell, where Farlen walked by with his hounds and she saw Zoe enter the keep with maester Luwin.

Zoe/CATELYN

"The figures are here, my lady," maester Luwin passed Zoe the sheafs of parchments which passed for ledgers of account. "There has been some damage to the outer curtain wall on the eastern side."

"Commission builders," Zoe ordered. "There's plenty of villagers, aren't there?"

"Tradesmen from White Harbor by ship," Maester Luwin nodded. "Yet there is a feast for the lords of the north within the moon's turn. We shall need more wagons… "

"Winterfell is not poor," Zoe pointed out. "Ned is no spender of frivolity. We will find the money."

"The money is here," Maester Luwin reiterated, to the pages which suddenly made more sense. "Winter is costing us, my lady. With new plow horses, oxen, straw for the stables… our vaults cannot bear such expense at times such as these."

_What would Catelyn do?_ Zoe asked herself. _No. If she can do it, so can I._

"White Harbor is the principal harbor in the north," Zoe pointed out. "A wealthy House if there is one north of the Neck. Ask them for a loan."

"From a vassal House, my lady?" a frown creased the maester's brow. "It should look very sordid indeed."

"Not at all," Zoe smartly replied. "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. We'll need all the gold we can to settle our accounts and pay for the feast and repairs and supplies. Send the ravens, Luwin."

"As my lady commands," the maester scurried to scoop up the parchment, curious as to why Lady Stark was so quick to dismiss his advice and her own forethought on the matter.

Adam/PETYR

Adam stood on the periphery of the king's royal apartments, where two Kingsguard soldiers Ser Arys and Ser Mandon stood guard.

"Lord Baelish," the former was courteous enough. "The king requests your presence."

_Yes, that's why I'm here_ , Adam wanted to snap, in his most torrid mood of trying to keep track of Littlefinger's ledges and actually provide a useful summary to the small council.

He entered, still hot from the verbal sparring Jon Arryn had impeded him with, for he knew nothing of finances yet Littlefinger seemed to be rich and keep the crown's coffers full.

Inside, Max sat quite fat on his chair, eating sparingly with only the one goblet of wine, for the heat did him in and he was a boy given over to gluttony early on.

"Littlefinger," Max smirked and winked, for he could barely remember anything from what the show didn't tell him; he didn't read the books unless Adam told him something. "Come on in."

Adam bowed elaborately, glad to have changed into lilac and fresh clothes on the way here. He took a seat opposite Max, who dismissed his guards even Ser Barristan, who with his brows raised left the two alone in the room.

"We're never truly alone," Adam cautioned, a finger to his lips.

"Yeah, I know," Max concurred, looking out the breeze from the balcony. "I'm getting bored. Whores are good and all, but I want a fire lit underneath me."

"How about fireplums?" Adam immediately regretted his lapse.

Clara/OBERYN

Clara saddled her horse, crimson and beautiful as she swung her leg on, still a bit shaky on horseback. Oberyn's squire, Daemon Sand, was a bastard boy who brought his own mount.

"To Sunspear," Clara told him, and rode off through the sands.

Daemon was the better rider while Clara still got her surroundings and adjustments, palm trees and sand kicking up underneath their horse's hooves. Daemon frowned to see the man who had knighted him so awkward on a horse; he who was such a good rider.

"It's the drink," Clara told him, the first thing that came to mind that sated his curiosity no less.

Halfway there, they set up camp, in a pavilion with separate beds overlooking the sea. Daemon made a fire while she took off her boots and wriggled her toes in the sand. She drank gratefully of the waterskin tied to her saddle, and ate sparingly of whatever meal her former squire had managed to procure forth.

When the sun went down, she veered to the back of the camp to make water, standing up lest she really make him suspicious by squatting with no paper for comfort.

_What a pantomime_ , Clara thought, as though she held a limp garden hose between her legs. She actually had to shake it off lest it dribble; she felt like a mummer.

As though she had been sewn up with no evidence she was a girl, castrated like Varys, except replaced with this manic bulge which itched and scratched and made it even more uncomfortable to ride a saddle or sit down. She understood why manspreading was a thing.

When Clara returned, she emerged inside the tent to see Daemon, dark haired and dusky skin, his dimples in his smile wearing little else once stripped of his riding clothes.

Faintly awkward, Clara stripped to Oberyn's firm chest and kept her smallclothes on, as much as Oberyn's not impotent bulge protruded like a bantam rooster's proud feathers.

"Night," she quipped, before she felt his hand on her cheek, like a soft feather graze.

Her hand shot out and twisted his, as she reared snake-like to grab his chin.

"Oberyn!" Daemon replied, his eyes searching hers.

Clara dropped him, drenched in adrenaline and sweat all of a sudden, and tore out into the night, saddling her horse and riding off towards Sunspear, her heart pounding.

Max/ROBERT

Even if muscles were rippling beneath, Max couldn't be sure with all of Robert's fat over top. Still, he sweated whether or not he was nervous as he seated himself in the king's chair in the small council chambers, and waited.

In came Adam with the silver mockingbird pin over whatever colorful costume he wore today, matched only by Renly who followed soon after. Varys came next, followed by Stannis, Jon and Pycelle, of course.

"Sit down," Max ordered, in a tone that brooked no argument. "Ser Barristan, remain near the door."

"Your Grace," the aged lord commander was somewhat surprised, as Sers Jaime and Arys were posted outside the oaken doors closed shut.

"What's this, brother?" Renly looked surprised, as though the rest of them were privy to some secret knowledge. He couldn't _care_ less, but was intrigued all the same.

"There's a spy in this room," Max told them all. "Or maybe there's several. Anyhow, I've found out some truths I want dealt with."

"We are here to serve, Your Grace," Varys simpered, at ease. "How might we ease your burden?"

"You can tell me why my queen hasn't birthed any coal-haired babes," Max told him.

To his credit, Varys did not shrink away. Stannis and Jon looked flummoxed; both too early for them to be tipped off to begin their investigations. Adam and Ser Barristan remained still as a stone, but only one of them truly knew what was going on.

"Your Grace," Pycelle warbled. "Such is the matters of the gods - "

"No it isn't," Max turned to Ser Barristan. "Send Jaime Lannister in."

The golden haired knight in white strode in, all arrogance. Pycelle implored danger in his eyes but Jaime, too cocksure, saw none of it. "Your Grace?"

"Which of your sons did you name," Max's eyes flashed. "Or are they all bastards?"

Jaime's hand went to his sword hilt, as did Ser Barristan's and the atmosphere was taut enough to bang a drum and make the whole place explode.

"Cersei will sing soon enough," Max told him. " _King_ slayer - "

Jaime leapt so fast that Max swore it wasn't a fart buried in his breeches. Ser Barristan's steel sung, and Adam panicked that all was lost and yelled, "Help!" as Ser Arys came from the rear, and together the melee was fraught, as Max regretted that such theatrics were required to prove the twins' incest, in his immediate predicament where he sat.

Ser Arys' guts spilled out from Jaime's riposte, yet Barristan knocked Jaime about the head and his sword swung true, and Jaime knelt quite injured, his sword kicked away as he faced the point of Barristan's.

"We can use him as a hostage," Adam quipped suddenly, always one for negotiation while the rest of the small council was frozen with fear. Max, however, didn't like loose ends.

"No," Max rose. "I've got all I needed; he dies!"

Ser Barristan plunged his sword into the death-defying lion, and crimson of the House Lannister spilled onto the flagstones.

"It's time," Max told Adam, who hurried off.

"Your Grace," Pycelle was beyond shocked that Lord Tywin's son lay dead. Varys could barely bestir himself for why had Littlefinger told the secret?

Gold cloaks rushed in, their spears poised and glinting.

"Take him to the black cells," Max ordered of the aged maester, who protested feebly as he tried to escape their grasp. "And you!"

"Your Grace?" Varys remained poised. "My little birds - "

" - will kill me in my sleep," Max finished. "Stannis, take him."

Stannis, more a commander than a warrior, nonetheless hefted Varys to his feet as Ser Barristan wiped the sweat from his brow and raised his sword.

"You condemn yourself, Your Grace," Varys wriggled, wondering how he had been found out, and what his dear friend Illyrio would do without his help.

"Nah, I'm just a fat old drunk," Max nodded, and the sword came slashing down.

Grace/SANSA

Grace watched as Robb and Jon drilled in the yard, under the constant tutelage of Ser Rodrik. To another side, Theon shot bows while Arya watched, however cautiously. Bran climbed atop a tower while Zoe chided him no more, and Rickon held her skirts as she swept into the yard.

"Don't be late for the feast," she called, a meaningful glance to Grace as she returned to the warmth of indoors.

Grace wanted to go riding but her horse was getting fit for a new saddle, and Hullen would let her know when. She sat on the cold stone fence watching the archery butt receive more than its fair share of arrows, every time the bow _twanged_ Theon hit it more or less dead centre.

"Why aren't you at needlework?" he asked, his cocky smile endearing.

"I'm not good at it anymore," Grace sat, making anything as Sansa sound sweet.

Theon came near to let Bran have a turn, however inept he was at this young age.

"Bet you can do it better than Arya," he joked.

"Not really," Grace glanced up at the tousled dark hair, and the easy arrogance which made her wish _she_ could be so confident. From afar, Jeyne and Beth watched her and talked in hushed whispers. "I should go."

Zoe/CATELYN

Zoe sat beside Ned, who on his other side was Mikken, one of the tradesmen Winterfell employed and by custom he always tried to learn the inhabitants of those he might one day ask to fight alongside him.

Upon the high table, Robb was glanced at by a few girls below the salt, while Grace ate little, Arya looked for mischief, Rickon had been put to bed early, and Bran pretended his food and implements were part of a war strategy.

"Where's Jon and the other boy," Zoe asked Grace, who shrugged. She beckoned over Vayon Poole. "Find them."

"Yes, my lady," the steward picked them out lower on the table, and both were invited to sit up with the Starks.

Ned watched with some quizzical concern but held his tongue, and room was made so Jon and Theon might join them.

Zoe broke the awkward silence, and bade that they all continue.

Adam/PETYR

"Lord Baelish," Janos Slynt formed the head of the Gold Cloaks, eliminating Lannister opposition within the capital. Soldiers ran to and fro, and shrieks pierced the corridors.

"Secure the queen and her children," Adam ordered.

As Janos headed off, Adam bumped into Lysa Arryn, whose silver-and-blue falcon guards were close by with their swords drawn.

"Is it true?" Lysa grasped Adam, who could not help but relinquish her grip with distaste. "The Kingslayer… dead?"

"Your lord husband will meet you in the Tower of the Hand," Adam ordered, seeing the desperation and confusion in Lysa's eyes. Adam squirmed that she might suspect he was akin to a Faceless Man, a nobody in this stranger's skin. "Hurry!"

Max/ROBERT

Max found Cersei and the children imprisoned within the Queen's Ballroom of the Red Keep. He entered with Adam by his side, his Kingsguard albeit shorter by a couple, and a dozen gold cloaks.

"Get out," Cersei hissed, but in her lovely fury just like a lioness. She sat with her children huddled to her side.

"Father?" Myrcella blinked, as perfect as the Mother. "What happened to Uncle Jaime?"

"Keep them apart and under armed guard," Max ordered, too suspicious that events had played out so well. "Send a raven to Casterly Rock demanding Lord Tywin answer for the crimes of his children. What else?"

"The Hound fled the scene, but his elder brother was caught with several crossbow bolts," Janos reported. "Yet he slew a dozen good men of ours."

"I've ordered Renly to raise the stormlands, lest Tywin think of revenge," Adam said.

"Good," Max nodded. "The sooner these Lannisters are dealt with, the better."

"Will there be a trial?" Adam asked. "Lord Tywin will - "

"Fuck Lord Tywin," Max rounded on his master of coin who visibly cringed. Adam had always venerated Tywin's implacability. "I'm not waiting for any tricks. We'll see justice done before he can get his golden arse on my throne."

Adam/PETYR

Among the queen and her children, other Lannisters had been rounded up. The king's squires, Lancel and Tyrek were both sons of Lord Tywin's younger brothers. Tyrion Lannister had been easily captured inside a brothel.

"It is not Lord Tywin's treason," Jon Arryn had to counsel the king, though he was not as furious as one might expect for being cuckolded so. "We cannot declare war on him for an act only conspired amongst between two of his children."

Max itched for war; even as he remained out of shape to lead it. All the same, Adam had received word that Renly was mustering his banners in the stormlands just in case, and had sent Loras back to Highgarden for a discreet word with his father, Mace Tyrell.

Lord Tywin's entourage came one hundred strong; he had left his brother Kevan to rule, just in case the stag king was as mad as the dragon one. His gilded courser and trappings made him look a god among men; of course, most his kin were held hostage in the capital, and his heir looked to be the Imp. The coup had been so sudden that leaks could barely spring.

Max/ROBERT

Max peered down at Lord Tywin from atop the Iron Throne, where seven of the nine Kingsguard ringed him, among gold cloaks along the walls, where hushed members of the gallery watched the proud lion walk the length of the hall and bow before the king.

"Your Grace," his voice was rock steady, his manner as befit a cordial lion.

"Lord Tywin, your son Jaime attempted to kill his king prevented only just by the blade of our noble Lord Commander," Jon Arryn announced, having persuaded Max to remain silent atop his throne. "He was charged with incest with his sister, the former queen Cersei Lannister, whose three children share his name."

Shocked murmurs ran throughout the crowd. A bright sheen of perspiration layered Lord Tywin's bald forehead.

"What do you have to say to these charges?" Jon Arryn demanded.

"If these charges are true, then Your Grace has no lawful heirs," Lord Tywin spoke up. "My daughter can only be sentenced to death. My son deserves his moniker."

Titters broke out, silenced by the stamping of spear butts from the Gold Cloaks. Lord Tywin's green eyes shone on them all.

"As it stands, House Lannister has nonetheless aided the crown in the past," Jon Arryn acknowledged. "If you would disown your children thus, we seek no further grievance and will return your family to you unharmed."

"All of them?" Lord Tywin questioned.

"The bastards Joffrey and Tommen will be sent to the Wall," Jon Arryn answered for him. "The girl will be sent to the Silent Sisters. Tyrion will remain for good behavior."

"Very well," Lord Tywin envisioned the future for House Lannister, and knew the lion's influence had been strictly curbed.

"So we shall conclude our business," Jon Arryn rose. "You are free to return to the west, my lord."

With every eye upon him, Lord Tywin bowed to the king and headed out the door into the capital's streets. The lion became a creature of the west, a looming shadow no longer.

"There will be ravens, I assure you," Jon Arryn leaned in. "Of the crown's debts, House Lannister is the chief creditor. He cannot win a war, but he will remember… "

"I've got a remedy for that," Max grinned, as he stepped off the Iron Throne, massaging his aching wrists where he had kept them still so as to not cut them on the blades.

Grace/SANSA

By now, the Starks were well aware that the Sansa they had come to know and love had frittered somewhat, the finer point of her learning fallen off the top of a hill, and desolate misery had come in its place.

Grace was not the singer Sansa was, nor good with a needle or who knew her courtesies so perfectly to practice them off the cuff. She was eager, plaintive and gullible, but then only her beauty remained to outshine Jeyne or Beth or any young girl her age.

Lonesome, Grace could not spend her time with Zoe who was busy administrating in Ned's absence or helping raise younger Bran or Rickon, so she went riding and cared for her horse, not minding the muck in the stables as her mount inhaled oats from her hand.

"Are you sick?" Theon raised as quizzical eyebrow, leaning on the post of the stable, as she tried to hide her dour look.

"No," Grace shot back, almost fiercely.

"Then why aren't you with Beth and Jeyne?" Theon asked. "Acting like a good little lady?"

"Arya plays in the mud and you don't bother her," Grace replied, petting her horse on its long nose.

"Arya didn't become a lady overnight," Theon remarked. "And you're… different."

A cold clammy hand gripped her insides lest they find out. A bright smile, tinged with the forceful desperation of not wanting piercing eyes to see what her inner thoughts were came immediately.

"I'm fine," she replied, in a voice that wasn't particularly convincing.

Theon ran a hand over the bridle of his own horse. "Want to race, then?"

"OK," Grace smiled, confirming Theon's own suspicions, but he wasn't about to turn away time with the beautiful Sansa, even if Kyra was to call out to him from afar. Sansa meant a great deal to him; he imagined her as his wife, if Lord Stark would consider the matter.

Zoe/CATELYN

"Cat," Ned called to her, one night as she washed and dressed from within the privy chamber, and emerged in a voluminous sleeping robe trimmed with fur which wrapped her figure. "Is there something wrong?"

"No," Zoe was quick to snap back. She had quickly learned that where Ned's place in this world was solid, so was Catelyn's; yet walking the fine line by getting the last word in and remaining a great lady who knew her place was tough for Zoe to balance. She had opted for the former, and many resented her for her outbursts and assertive demeanour, even moreso than they had grown used to under Catelyn.

"You must tell me," Ned implored, hurt that his wife had shared so little of late.

Zoe knew it was sulky and suspicious that she might ask for "a place" in Winterfell - indeed, Catelyn Stark held a great love for the people she ruled on Ned's behalf. Yet she was in someone else's body, with the temperament of Cersei and Lysa to match.

"I'm seeing things differently now," Zoe told Ned, fixing him with a glance in his eye. "I'm getting older, and I need to make sure no-one slips up."

"So long as we have enough food for winter and our children are safe, none can say you are not doing enough," Ned assured her. She wanted to be reassured, but she needed more than words. Why didn't men understand that? Why did she have to spell it out for them?

Adam/PETYR

Adam sat along the high table at the king's feast, seats usually reserved for the queen and the Kingslayer and the Imp and the heirs to be. Now, however, Max had given those places of pride to the Tyrells, with Mace on his right and Margaery closer still.

Reachmen joined those below the salt, but it was clear what was happening.

Max had made his pick of a new queen, and it was only the terms which needed settling. After all, with his heirs named bastards, Stannis was next in line for the throne.

After the feast, Adam found his way to the king's chambers, to discuss the business of the king's future with the Tyrells. Jon Arryn had been understandably taken aback that he, who insisted on the Lannister marriage after the rebellion, was not chosen by Max to speak with his voice in this matter, as Hand of the King.

"Lord Baelish," Mace Tyrell sat opposite him, surprised that he should find the king's favor so, when he was only a money grubber risen to great heights by association with Jon Arryn. "So it seems we have business to discuss."

"The king's position is untenable," Adam opened, feeling free to represent Max's needs as only he knew best, more than Renly or Jon Arryn or even Ned Stark himself. "He must have heirs, but he also desires a wife. He would beg for the favor of Lady Margaery's hand."

"Am I to understand my daughter will be named queen?" Mace was jovial. "At such a juncture where Cersei Lannister is to be executed. Lord Tywin… "

"He will remain in his Rock, brooding," Adam comfortably adjusted himself. "Yet it cannot be a complete secret that the crown owes most of its debts to House Lannister."

Mace smiled, but behind his canny eye he blamed Littlefinger for how much the crown owed to Lord Tywin. There was a not inconsiderate amount owed to House Tyrell and the Iron Bank, too.

"House Tyrell can comfortably weigh in on the crown debt," Mace pointed out. "We are not for want of gold, even if we do not sift through our chamber pots to find it."

"I'm glad we're in agreement," Adam raised his eyebrows. "As such, House Tyrell will be part of the royal fold. Westeros will know a new unison of these Great Houses."

Mace was not entirely without cunning, but he did wish his mother was bartering on his behalf. His lack of confidence was only due to what she believed was lacking _in him_.

Clara/OBERYN

"We are invited to court," Clara read the scroll.

Arianne stirred from her window seat, where the breeze was all the comfort she might find during the heat that poured in, here in Sunspear.

"We?" she purred, snatching the invitation. From her father's attempts to betroth her to elderly men and confine her to managing feasts than learning to be his heir, she was more than relieved to do something with her time, even if the capital smelled and was the grave site for her aunt and her children. "When do we leave?"

"Soon," Clara added dryly, whose place at Sunspear had afforded much benefits, but lazing the day away and free rancor had rankled her to no end. It left her too long with her thoughts and she never liked that.

Max/ROBERT

Robert might have had plenty of reason to wail against his opponents in the training yard, getting all his anger out from being publicly cuckolded and losing the veneer of ignorance of which he had grown so fond.

Yet Max's practice was solely to do with his weight, and not a bit because he enjoyed the practice of hitting things as did his counterpart. _Robert_ had been cuckolded, not him, Max figured. He didn't take it personally.

While the wedding preparations were underway, the capital had filled with Tyrells, little gold roses sewn on their green doublets, and guests had trickled in from various houses of the Reach. Renly, of course a Tyrell proponent, had brought along his own guests from the stormlands, and representatives of most kingdoms made their way to the capital in anticipation of the wedding to come.

Yet Lord Tywin remained steadfastly atop Casterly Rock, his vassals and bannermen kept close around him. He had been humilated, shamed before the court and kingdom for having two children sworn in incest, whose spawn had littered the king's feet with their vile presence and had been executed or exiled for their treasons.

Lord Tywin watched as the vines crept over the walls, roses for some to see, and all the same tightening their grasp without the lion's malevolence to keep them at bay.

Grace/SANSA

"A wedding," Grace read, at breakfast one day.

King Robert was to wed the Lady Margaery Tyrell, as his queen had been executed on the grounds of incest. Joffrey and Tommen were due here any day now, forming an honor guard round them on their way to the Wall. Theon had snickered that the stag's antlers had been replaced by horns, but soured when Zoe shot him a look of warning.

"He's still the king," Zoe decreed, even as Ned silently ate his breakfast.

"One of us must go," Ned had told her, when maester Luwin had informed them of events.

"You can," Zoe told him, preferring to stay and rule Winterfell.

"But - " Grace tried to get used to Zoe's new title. "Mother! Don't you want to come with me?"

"Not in the slightest," Zoe replied.

"But Uncle Edmure's going, Mother," Robb replied, the dutiful son. "You'll get to see aunt Lysa."

"Nice try," Zoe snickered. "I'm staying and that's all there is to it."

Later, Grace sat in sewing as long as she could manage without bursting into tears, and found solace in a hot bath to drain her worries away. If being Sansa meant that she was pretty, skilled in feminine arts and tactful, she hadn't thought through that _Sansa_ knew how to do the last two, and without them, Grace didn't consider herself pretty when everyone muttered and wondered what dark cloud hung over her shoulders.

Still, Theon noticed her as she walked across the courtyard, and she was glad for his company, where the only person she might confide in was Zoe, who was busy trying to wear the pants in Winterfell.

Zoe/CATELYN

"You must go," Ned implored.

"Me?" Zoe frowned. "Why me?"

"There must always be a Stark in Winterfell," Ned told her. "Both the girls are invited and will need you to curry them along. Robb might go, of course. But the younger boys must stay here with me, including Jon and Theon."

"Are you sure?" Zoe felt unwanted; moved out. Was it all these customs which kept the men in charge and the women unwaveringly following their orders?

"You want to do good," Ned closed his hand over her palm, and she tried not to wriggle from the dominance she perceived in that act. "I would not send you south without good reason."

Adam/PETYR

"Prince Oberyn," Adam bowed, to receive the Dornish contingent by sea, from the mouth of the harbor of Blackwater Bay, where Clara stepped off, fierce in crimson and polished scales, while Arianne beside her was buxom, dark haired and seductive.

"We're here," Clara unnecessarily announced. "Where's the king?"

"You must be careful," Adam whispered. "House Martell and Dorne have little love for the Usurper, for what he permitted Lord Tywin to get away with in the deaths of Elia and her children."

"Doran mentioned that," Clara said dryly, uncaring. "I'm not about to kill Max over it. And good thing that Tywin and Gregor are gone. But if only he had picked Arianne to be queen."

Adam followed Clara's gaze to Arianne, buxom and dark haired and beautiful.

"Well, we needed to pay off the crown debt… " Adam hesitated. "And the Tyrells… "

"Margaery," Clara concluded with distaste. She was the rose higher on the vine as far as Max was concerned. "Slut."

Clara/OBERYN

Clara's quarters were within the Red Keep, unusually close and spacious considering that the Tyrells held a grudge against House Martell.

Still, Clara paid that no mind as she relaxed in a bath, glad the climate was more suited to her tastes, and changed into slightly warmer gear as she emerged out into the training yard.

Of course, Max was still practising up until the very minute, as much as a bride might eat less to fit in the image of a good wife upon the altar. She had seen Margaery taking rides by sea and galloping in the kingswood, hawking with Renly or sitting in the gardens with her ladies, Olenna in attendance.

The stares she received as Oberyn were hateful and distasteful, and she tried to tell herself she did not mind them. It was Oberyn they hated, not _her_.

Max/ROBERT

Max hefted the wedding garb over his head and tied the belt tight, as much as he could.

He could still be considered portly, as much as Mace Tyrell might be, but he had done his damnedest to lose the weight, and if anyone Ser Barristan was proud of him for the effort.

He stood at the altar while the High Septon's crown twinkled rainbow in the light shone above, and watched as Margaery was escorted down the aisle by her lord father who presented her to the king with a gracious bow.

In the front row pew, to one side sat the Tyrells absent Willas, while in the other was Stannis, Renly, Jon Arryn, Adam and Clara, a rather odd mix of relatives.

"... you may take the cloak," the High Septon whispered.

Max smirked to hide his sudden confusion, jolting into memory as he removed Margaery's green cloak with gilded rose and replaced it with the black-and-yellow of the stag. Mace Tyrell beamed and his chest puffed up with pride and more than a little contentment.

At the feast, Max took pride of place and sat where Joffrey once had, and stayed off wine just in case, glancing to his wife though he held no suspicion for her sweet, trusting face. Adam could remind him that if he died, Stannis would take over, and he was a boring husband and unpopular lord, with only his daughter to succeed him.

As he sweated through the first dance and offered Margaery to her brother Loras, Max's piggy eyes went to Arianne, voluptuous and beautiful with her seductive smile. He followed her walk as she danced with Ser Garlan, himself mystified though he was wed to a Fossoway, the slightest of smiles on her face as she clapped her hands in time to the music, the harp of which she could play.

When the songs died down, the bedding ceremony could commence, and Max took the blood which rose in his groin at Arianne's glance with him as he scooped Margaery up in his arms, not wanting any man but he to witness her naked, and brought her forth into his bedchamber.

Grace/SANSA

Grace had been invited to break her fast with the queen, and she was excited to change into southron fabrics, out of the dull black or grey that was her Stark namesake. She wore the crimson of House Tully, with patterns of blue so she wouldn't look like a carrot with her auburn hair and smiled as Margaery offered her the seat beside her, to the frowns or carefree grins of her Tyrell cousins.

"You must stay in the capital with me," Margaery squeezed her hand, for her lofty heights had not made her arrogant. "I will ask Lady Catelyn if you might be one of my ladies-in-waiting."

"Really?" Grace colored, for she desired to get away from Winterfell. She would miss Zoe, though. "What can I help with? Cleaning up your chambers?"

"That's a servant's task," Elinor pointed out, her nose wrinkling.

"You'll come with me on rides, pick seashells on the beach and go for barge rides," Margaery kissed Grace on the cheek like a sister. "And you must help me pick out what to wear. You have your mother's taste in clothing."

"It's nothing," Grace blushed, as ripe as a tomato, and hoped Margaery would like her.

Zoe/CATELYN

Zoe had a fitful sleep, but at least she got her own bed. She shared quarters with Grace, but in separate rooms where the smell of shit she would not get used to, but she wondered what Ned was doing in her absence; undoing all the changes she had set forth. How much she had toiled to get things going _her_ way; from all the talk, Lady Joanna had ruled Lord Tywin even as he claimed the realm as Hand, and she meant to be that for Ned, whether he liked it or not.

"Zoe, can I stay in the capital?" Grace had pleaded, where she had spent the day with the queen. She was a daughter of House Stark; a great and esteemed House indeed.

"Won't you get lonely?" Zoe asked her. Truth was, Grace would have some girls to hang out with, where she didn't quite gel with Jeyne or Beth who knew her as _Sansa_.

"No," Grace pleaded. "I'll get to hang out with Clara, too."

"Alright," Zoe gave her assent, thinking nothing would come of it from those type of girls.

Adam/RENLY

Adam sat in the small council chambers, with new entrants Clara filling in as master of whispers as per the king's request and Gormon as grand maester. Adam knew Clara's position was a sop as she would only mildly partake in the duties, but then Adam was finding himself doing the same.

"The repayments to House Lannister have already begun," Jon Arryn announced. "The king and crown thank you, Lord Tyrell."

Mace Tyrell nodded in affable, silent praise.

"Lord Tywin has not called in his loan, which speaks wisely for - "

"Will he go to war?" Clara asked, slouching in her chair like Oberyn would, as though on her computer chair playing something set in a fictional world.

"It was not Lord Tywin's treason that caused the bastardy of his children," Stannis pointed out. "Yet the man cannot be trusted all the same. We hold the Imp hostage, yet he could very well pass the mantle to his brother instead."

"The westerlands remain a part of the Seven Kingdoms," Jon Arryn interceded. "The queen, her brother and their spawn have been dealt with. Let us move on…"

As the meeting wrapped up, Clara asked for Adam to remain behind, which he solely did.

"So, what are you gonna do now?" Clara asked. "Max's got what he wants."

"Yes," Adam pondered. "Do you?"

"What do men do round here?" Clara raised an eyebrow. "Should I visit a whorehouse?"

"Well," Adam blushed at the thought. "Um, I have brothels - "

"Yeah no thanks," came Clara's swift reply. "I was only kidding."

Clara/OBERYN

Clara returned to her chambers, noticing Arianne slipping in, wan and sly eyed.

"Where have you been?" Clara demanded, noticing Arianne's flushed look. She was always flirting, like a slut.

"Nowhere," Arianne giggled, skipping off to her bedchamber within the apartments set aside for the Dornish host.

Max/ROBERT

Max enjoyed Margaery in the bedchamber, but he had not expected the young, fair maiden who had been a far cry from the alluring, manipulative Margaery he had known on the show. Still, he emptied his seed into her all the same, knowing that any babes she birthed would be far from born by the time his simulation was over.

Still, book Margaery was not the fireplum he had expected, and he infinitely preferred the Dornish red. He probably should have sampled a few more queens, first… and the matter of the crown's debts came back to bite him in the ass. The Dornish had sand and spears; what good were they against Tyrell coin and harvest against a potential foe like Lannister gold?

Grace/SANSA

Grace was to see Zoe off at the harbor. She was one of Queen Margaery's ladies now; but to hear her say it, for all that Zoe's expression remained grim. She was thinking of coppers and curtain walls and feasts to be held; lords to win favor and smallfolk to consider. Grace's successes in the capital were the dregs at the bottom of Zoe's mind.

"I've not got long left," Zoe said, in the wistful tone which worried Grace as though she were talking of doom. "I've got to make the most of it."

Max had offered Zoe the use of one of his finest ships to take her north - _Lady Lyanna_ \- and so Grace waved at the departing ship, staying longer once it disappeared from view to consult her feelings about remaining in this stinking, labyrinthe city even if Tyrells populated every corner.

Max had gifted her Ser Arys Oakheart, and a handsome man she thought him as he escorted her back to the Red Keep, alongside a pair of Stark guardsmen who had been wistful and lonesome not to return north even if it was to protect Lord Stark's daughter.

After a bath to rid her of the exertions but also the smell, Septa Mordane was waiting in her chambers, to help her dress.

She had picked a few dresses, but her septa advised against wearing solely Tyrell colours of green and gold. Grace moped to see the grey and black and white of House Stark.

"You might wear your father's colours with pride, you know," Septa Mordane brushed aside the Tully crimson and blue which had been her staple. "If you were to wear green and gold, it would be that your husband was a Tyrell. Make no mistake, Sansa; your moves here may very well assure the right kind of match; especially your friendship with the queen."

"Yeah, yeah," Grace lifted up her arms so that the septa might pull the gown over her head. She closed her eyes as the fabric engulfed her from above; then she dazedly watched the view from an ajar window, of bustling dusky streets and crimson tile roofs.

"Sansa," the septa urged, fastening the laces around her gown. "You must breathe in, my dear."

"I'm trying," Grace admonished, with a twinge that did not come with the pinching of her skin. "Don't say I'm fat."

"I didn't say anything," the septa was shocked, as she pulled tighter. "It's this food they serve you at the capital. You see how His Grace eats - "

"Are you calling me a pig?" Grace shrugged her off, hoping to throw her off the scent. She stalked to her privy and slammed the door, hearing Septa Mordane banging on it with admonition. Grace tried to think fast, and came upon a welcome realisation. Queen Margaery would help her; she was her friend, and would know how to keep a secret.

Zoe/CATELYN

Zoe had pitied Lysa, for the feeble hold she had on her husband, and watched as she glared daggers into Adam, festive in understated plumage with the silver mockingbird as his sigil. He had resigned as master of coin, relinquishing his post so that Mace might take the position, and further cement Tyrell involvement in solving the crown's debts.

Of course, she had not been blind to the looks cast to her daughter, or even to herself, with her Tully auburn hair, though they had yet to see the stretch marks from carrying so many children, like a puckering crevasse upon her wrinkled skin, which she had dared Ned to back away from, but he had held her nonetheless, in her arms as they made love.

_Love_ , Zoe simpered at, even the thought of with so guileless a man as Ned. She could respect him, but then Roose Bolton was a man even she feared, though he probably mistreated his wives in the past, too. Men were only good for one thing, and they always left before she found it what it was.

Adam/PETYR

Adam had sailed on the same tide that Grace and Zoe had left on, but bringing with his naval escort a smaller ship which he would need to navigate the rocky shores of the Fingers, where the Drearfort was located.

As he struggled up the stony shore, he was met by Umfred, an aging old man who led him past the peat bog and through paddocks of sheep with pellets of dung on the wet, wilted grass to where the keep stood, a grey haze across the sky as he met Grisel at the door.

He could smell the dung fire as he took off his boots. He greeted Bryen the captain of his meagre guard, and pet the old blind dog beside the fire as he moved upwards.

He had dinner up the winding stair in the modest hall, black bread with barley stew. As he climbed to the lord's chambers, he lay in bed with the thunderclap illuminating through the arrow slit windows, shivering despite the fire lit below, hearing the old blind dog bark in fear, and feeling like he was home at last, like the farm he had lived on as a boy.

Clara/OBERYN

"You slut," Clara slapped Arianne round the face, who recoiled and reared but Clara held her back, with practised ease for the strength she bore in her muscles.

It had not taken long for Max to confess his secret, and though _Clara_ had no particular loyalty to Dorne, she blamed the seductress all the same. Each night risked the Tyrell alliance for which Adam had given up his post. The Tyrells already hated Oberyn which meant they hated _her_ ; she wouldn't risk them on Max's bad side in case they stepped back to allow the lion to feast on _them_ , the leavings.

"Take her back to Sunspear," Clara ordered, of the Dornish honor guard who escorted the sad girl down the spiral steps. "Put her on a slaver so she's tired by the end."

The guard raised his eyebrows, and Clara hastily lied, "I meant _rowing_."

Max/ROBERT

If the Tyrells were displeased with Prince Oberyn on the small council, some small measure of interest might be paid by virtue of Margaery's queenship and that her first child would be heir. Still, Mace rankled like he had a bone to pick, and Max left it to his Hand to sort out any difficulties. Mace's appetite would not be satisfied just because his daughter was queen.

Though he remained big, Max was determined to get his weight down, if only so he didn't suffocate Margaery. The fair, beautiful maid-no-longer didn't entice him so much as if she were old enough to represent the show Margaery, but Arianne had been a firecracker worth plucking. Otherwise, he spent the coin which should've been paying back Tywin Lannister in brothels; Mace Tyrell was a fool if he thought Max would do any less in Robert's body, even with Casterly Rock looming like a shadow from the west.

Grace/SANSA

"Sansa," Margaery's smile lit up the garden, pleasant and sweet smelling with her Tyrell cousins beside her. "Bring out the lemon cakes, please."

A servant nodded, with the Tyrell rose embroidered on his doublet. Grace took the seat beside Margaery as proferred, and soon they were all eating dainty bites. Grace's nerves got the better of her and she noticed the other girls' stares.

"What?" Grace asked, miserably swallowing the mouthful.

"Her Grace asked if you miss your mother," Alla offered.

"Sometimes," Grace truthfully admitted. She took a sip to clear her throat and tried not to wilt under the Tyrell stares. "Can I ask you guys something?"

"Of course," Margaery placed a hand on Grace's own, yet it was her cousins who could not conceal their obvious interest. "We are quite alone, never fear."

"Well," Grace hesitated, for in this medieval age, there were certain restrictions not otherwise placed in a modern one. "I haven't had my period… "

One of the Tyrell cousins frowned; two others glanced at one another.

"Your moon blood?" the little queen asked, and Grace merely nodded, thinking it the same. "Sansa, you need not fret. Your first flowering will be in all due time."

"No," Grace replied, a little rattled. "I haven't had it in a while."

"But you're so young," Elinor pointed out. "When did you first bleed, my lady?"

"Well, a fortnight after the start of - um, this year," Grace answered her, to the shocked stares of the girls around her. "But it's OK, right?"

"Don't say another word," Margaery assured her, keeping her cousins quiet with a bright glare. "I'll call you to my chambers within a few days. Be assured; you're in good hands now."

Adam/PETYR

Petyr's holdings were indeed small, and Adam could tour them in half a day, wishing he could at least have the old blind dog by his side. A handful of families farmed the bare peat bog stretched out before them; a lonely existence with strong winds and never enough to eat.

With what gold remained to him would've made his life here very comfortable; but learning how to live off the land was more important to him. The false gaiety and charms of the capital was no longer his heartbeat; he wanted to live simply, to clear his head, to not have to scurry around like a rat in the Red Keep and to keep his conscience clear.

Clara/OBERYN

"There have been some irregularities, Lord Arryn," Mace Tyrell said pointedly, who didn't have to try hard if Clara's presence made him fear Dornish influence was creeping through the grass. "Some of which need not be paid by Tyrell coin."

"If the debts are considered usury or falsehood, we shall bring the culprits to heel," Jon Arryn continued. "Repayment of Lannister gold must take precedence."

"Why?" Clara asked, whose own contribution was little considering she had few spies of her own; she hated the Sand Snakes, who would've otherwise bettered her position. "If we stop the repayments, we'll crush him at war."

"There can be no such words spoken, Prince Oberyn," Jon Arryn imperiled. "To do so would ruin the reputation of the crown. We cannot simply war on Lord Tywin to remove him as a creditor."

"Why not?" Clara pressed. "Are you scared you won't win?"

"Of course we'd win, that's beside the point," Mace puffed up, who would like to show up the upstart Randyll Tarly by taking Casterly Rock, in a daydream of his own design. "By the good graces, after toppling Lord Tywin you'd surely think to remove me, your biggest creditor next!"

"It would set an unreasonable, dangerous pattern," Jon Arryn's eyes glittered at Clara's words.

"Whatever," Clara rolled her eyes, as Mace returned to Jon Arryn, his wary gaze more animated than ever.

Max/ROBERT

"Your Grace," Max turned, lathered in sweat like a horse to see Ser Loras standing near, watching the melee play out in the yard. Ser Barristan, in his white armor sheathed his sword, mopping his brow for it would have been sacrilege to so openly show that he did not break a sweat against the king.

"Hey," Max shook Loras' hand, and he winced to feel the bones crunch. Slowly, surely, Robert's muscles and strength were coming back. "What do you want?"

"Please permit me to politely request," Loras bowed as deeply as he could. "Lord Arryn _suggests_ your presence at the small council meeting."

Max didn't get off his high horse for lack of courtesy; yet he could see the boy did not favor giving him the message.

"Why didn't Jon come and get me?" Max asked, following the knight all the same.

"It is a matter of some urgency," Loras' took fast strides compared with the king.

"You can tell me," Max replied shrewdly, but a Tyrell of Highgarden knew better than that, out in the open through the corridors they marched.

"I was not given that honor," Loras replied sulkily. "Here we are."

Max grinned at that; as though he didn't know where to find the place he butchered some of Robert's counselors, keeping his realm together. Jon Arryn stood behind the chair to the right of the king's; this Max sat upon, and all the members sat.

Jon Arryn looked worried like a bird with its feathers ruffled; Mace dismissed his sulky son to guard the door alongside two of the Kingsguard; Stannis was grim and clenching his jaw for the tension in the air. Renly nodded to Loras before he departed, while Clara took her seat, powerful and dexterous the way Max hoped to physically be before long.

"What is it?" Max demanded, not that he had been pulled from a particularly enjoyable threesome by comparison.

"The treasury," Mace began, before Lord Arryn could politely intercede. "There has been mismanagement of the crown's debts."

"By who?" Max frowned.

"Lord Baelish," Jon Arryn replied, his glance to Mace telling Max the two had conspired for this admission of sorts. "Of the sums owed to House Lannister, House Tyrell and the Iron Bank… plenty could have been avoided."

"So?" Max's face flooded red, glancing to Clara who chewed her lip, thinking fast. "Just pay it off."

"This cannot be done," Mace shook his head, then realised his error. "Of course, the gold will be repaid. Yet some of it need not be raised at all. It seems Littlefinger took out loans to inflate the crown debt, the interest of which has been carrying over for years."

"He's kept himself useful, by making things look good on paper," Renly interceded, seeing as how his brother was losing focus of the issue at hand, from the look on his face. Yet his glance to Mace reminded Max that the two were in cahoots through Loras.

"Are you saying Littlefinger made it look like the debt is bigger than it is?" Clara asked, everyone looking to her - him - for having spoken up of a sudden.

"It _is_ bigger than it has to be," Jon Arryn replied patiently, his hands flexed like an eagle atop a mount poised to strike. "Do your spies tell of what he's planning in the Vale?"

"No," Clara replied, hating the look Mace Tyrell gave her. "He just wants to live a simple life."

"By his departure, anyone he might have paid off or blackmailed have risen without the threat held over their heads to come and tell us their stories," Jon Arryn took a deep breath. "I took him in, my wife allowed him to begin at Gulltown where he tripled the income. There is plenty he will need to answer for."

"What?" Max started all of a sudden, scrambling for a branch as he tried to tune in.

"A trial must be held," Jon told him, as Mace's chest heaved, to think of the sums owed to House Tyrell. "He must be brought to justice for endangering the crown so."

"But he's not like that anymore," Clara spat, with all the deluded notion that this was not reality, and why didn't the Tyrells just shut their mouth and pay the damn debt?

"Might I remind you," Mace heaved, with barely suppressed rage. "House Tyrell is to help pay the debts owed to House Lannister; more than should be paid if this cretin only stayed in his eastern bog. If I must pay it, then he must be held responsible all the same!"

"You should've checked first," Clara replied, and a hushed silence at her insult passed through. "It's not our fault your Margaery grew hooves to race down the aisle."

"Shut it," Max directed at Clara, as rancor broke out and he hammered his fist on the table. His lack of participation so far was enough for the attendees to pause in their furore to seek a reason to continue, with inflamed fervor. "Jon, arrest Littlefinger. Everyone get out, but for Oberyn."

As angry as they all were, none could deny Oberyn was the best fighter in the room. Any hopeful scenarios of masculine pride withered as Clara rose like a cobra, prepared to strike.

When the room was empty, Max looked to Clara.

"Thanks for that!" he uttered.

"So what," Clara shook her head. "You know it's true. You don't even like her 'cos she doesn't look like the actress."

"You've got to save him," Max told her. "What he did was in Littlefinger's time. He's innocent."

"They think you're protecting him 'cos he helped with the Lannister coup," Clara replied, her sharp eyes observing his helpless rage. "You know how the game of thrones is played."

"I'll send him a raven," Max began.

"Yeah right," Clara replied. "Do that and the Tyrells will be on your back. They'll intercept the message."

"I'm the king!" Max declared.

"Propped up by the Tyrells," Clara pointed out. "You can't be seen to interfere."

"Then take him away somewhere," Max replied. He did not like Adam that much, but he did owe him, and compared to the Tyrells right now, a true friend was better than the queen wearing nothing but her crown.

"To Dorne?" Clara mused the idea, figuring he would hate the heat.

"I don't care," Max told her, his conscience troubling him. "Just get it done."

Grace/SANSA

"Lady Sansa?"

Grace entered the grand maester's chambers, changed somewhat since the departure of Pycelle. Gormon looked not dissimilar to Mace, and though he was sworn to the Citadel, there was a golden rose linking him to the Tyrells as the lions once had Pycelle.

"Please, sit down," Gormon checked her, as only one in her condition could be checked. "When was your last moon's blood, my lady?"

"Before I arrived at the capital," Grace tried to think hard, but this aged maester's hands on her made her writhe in discomfort. She breathed a sigh of relief when he backed away to peer down at her. "What should I do next?"

"Well, my lady," Gormon began, glad for her open mind. "There is moon tea that can be brewed. Some ladies take to their beds for a few days, a week, and there are pains afterward, but you shall find yourself whole once more."

"Get rid of it?" Grace coloured. "No, I want to keep my baby!"

Gormon looked at her with distaste. No doubt some hedge knight had flattered Lord Stark's daughter into such wanton debauchery. To think, a bastard child!

"As you wish, my lady," his lip curled as he addressed some sheafs of parchment on his desk. "Of course, this will mean informing your father… "

"Oh, yeah," Grace subsided a little, wondering how he'd take it. Surely Zoe wouldn't castigate her! "I hope they're ok about it."

"About the baby?" Gormon peered. "No, my lady. About that you are no longer welcome at court."

"What?" Grace flushed, once more. "Why not?"

"Our little queen cannot have as her lady-in-waiting, an unwed maid who means to produce a bastard," he tutted and shook his head. "What would everyone think?"

"She - " Grace paused. "She said it'd be ok!"

He gave her a friendly look, which she didn't immediately recognise as pity.

"I will inform Lord Stark and send you on the first ship home," Grand Maester Gormon apprised her of the situation. "We can't have you colouring the little queen's reputation at court."

Grace had only ever bent to authority, but anger flared in her all the same as she was led out of the grand maester's chambers, back to her room by a pair of Stark guards, and left to sulk, holding her belly in quiet thought.

Zoe/CATELYN

From when she entered underneath the curtain gate of Winterfell, she knew something was up.

The ride to White Harbor had been pleasant; too pleasant, and now she understood this was to be the gentling for what she would face next. Despite her best efforts, she wanted Ned to see she could work just as hard as Catelyn, but _better_ , with all that she thought she could improve upon.

But as Ned greeted her in the courtyard, the dour look on his face spoke volumes, as she could only tell after knowing him for months and months. Still yet would there be time where _Catelyn_ could pick up on other things; but Zoe was smart enough to know when the shit had hit the fan.

"What?" Zoe demanded, once the two were ensconced in their bedchambers. She didn't mean to be harsh; but force of will got results, where idle placidity meant you were taken advantage of by others, and people needed to know where you stood with them.

"It's Sansa," Ned told her. "Grand Maester Gormon writes that she is with child, and hence discharged from court, to return to Winterfell at once."

"Pregnant?" Zoe spat the word. She was not averse to it; though of course, had some physical larceny taken place, her blood rose at the thought of punishing who did it. "But she's eleven!"

"I don't see that the Grand Maester would lie," Ned pointed out, always at odds with this _new_ Catelyn whom he couldn't quite associate with the woman he loved.

"Do you know who did it?" Zoe bore up close to him, as though proximity brought better results, like a man's sinister, always unspoken threat of physicality helped to deliver. She could allow herself to be close to him, but always on edge; always with something else in mind, lest the encounter turn awry.

"Yes," Eddard replied. "He admitted his guilt not a few days ago."

Adam/PETYR

Adam burned the letter in the dung fire, one as of many from Lysa rebuking him and failing to understand why he fled the capital; why he seemed to be hiding with his tail between his legs; why he left her stuck with Jon Arryn with no way out.

Having hoped for peace and quiet, the few ravens who made the Drearfort their patronage had brought him news he had hoped to drown out with the waves against the shore and the thunder and lightning against the sky. He had done his deed; Max had his queen, and the Tyrells their influence at court.

Though he grew up on a farm, he had only ever watched sheep being shorn, and with modern implements. The flock of wool bobbing across the stretch of acres from the Drearfort proved intractable; he would have to set his mind to it the following day.

His court finery was in a trunk now since covered with dust, and his boots with dried pellets and grime, not to mention his clothes. It was the most meagre of accommodations; yet infinitely easier than playing the cat-and-mouse game of spying on people, lying to others and selling your soul to get ahead.

Clara/OBERYN

Clara stood on the prow of the ship, hearing the sailors' grunts and the oars clash in the water as it remedied the waters with its soothing current. It had been smooth until now; the darkening horizon reminding her of the tragedy which took Robert's - _Max's_ \- parents near Storm's End.

The warnings had been clear, but Clara could not risk riding, fleet as her horse might be, and fleeter still Oberyn might know how to command it; to hide and avoid the main road and find supplies along the way. Clara knew nothing of that, and so she took to the sea.

Yet even as she might outpace the mounted contingent riding to the Vale, the clash of thunder and lightning made her regret her choice. Too soon the seas became stormy, and violently ill was her namesake as she retched over the railing.

Bolting the door shut in a cabin below, she prayed for lifeline and would later realise that had she made her destination, she would not be able to disembark without a smaller boat to ferry her there.

Max/ROBERT

"... it's so sad, in her condition," the little queen said, as her cousins grouped around to dress her, in green and gold Tyrell cloth.

"Whose?" Max asked, who had hoped the warning of storms meant Clara was safe.

"Lady Sansa, of course," Margaery politely interceded. "She's with child."

"No shit!" Max burst out laughing. "Who with?"

"She didn't say," Margaery said delicately, dismissing her Tyrell cousins.

"Bet it's Robb," Max grinned. "She's always liked him."

"Her brother?" Margaery looked scandalised. Max realised his error.

"No, not him," Max tried to think who Grace would sleep with, but came up naught. She was as young as Sansa was; guileless and wholly devoted to Clara, if nobody else. "Jon Snow, maybe."

_That_ would rile Clara up, Max rewarded himself with another grin.

"Certainly not a bastard," Margaery spoke with confidence.

"Then I'll ask her," Max gave himself something to look forward to, other than his aching muscles from sparring; wherever they were hidden.

"That's quite impossible," Margaery replied. "She's been sent back to Winterfell."

"Winterfell?" Max turned on her. "Why?"

"She is with child," Margaery explained, as though to a plaintive child. Really, her husband could come across as quite like a boy. "It wouldn't be appropriate."

It made sense, but Grace would be disappointed all the same. Not that Max gave much thought to Grace's feelings; she always was too clingy and wanting to fill her empty life with his and Clara's schedules…

Grace/SANSA

Grace bumped along on another rut in the kingsroad; she had wanted to travel by ship, but the suggestion of storms made her think twice about such. Besides, the longer route was by far the safest for what awaited her at Winterfell; and this way, she'd enjoy some sights of the countryside before spending gods knows how long during her lying-in.

And a baby! Surely she'd be spared that particular torment. She'd have to wake herself up… but a stirring in her wanted this child, even if it was not truly her own, but Sansa's.

The honor guard included the Stark guardsmen who were her protectors in the capital, and a dozen knights sworn to see her safe. Septa Mordane had barely said a word to her since she disclosed the truth; for all her harping on, she had thought Sansa incorruptible to such base stirs and flutters of the heart.

There had been lodging at inns and castles where they would take her; once in the riverlands, she was still Catelyn Tully's daughter, and afforded the utmost of respect even as they shied away from her growing belly, and so the gossip began to spread through taverns.

Grace felt a spectacle whenever she did so, and preferred to stay at inns where nobody knew her name; but a pretty maid always gets stares, and with her retinue it was clear to some who she was.

She itched for a hot bath just as they set off from the inn at the crossroads, the busiest place of them all; and as the carriage driver pulled aside to let pass a dozen horsemen wearing the king's colours, she had hoped Max had convinced Margaery to let her be her handmaid again.

Yet her hopes were dashed as Septa Mordane stiffly told her to sit up straight, and that being with child was no excuse not to act like a lady born and bred. She said that last part with a little sniff, as though Grace could not hope to achieve such praise ever again.

Adam/PETYR

Adam hailed the small ship coming forth onto the Drearfort's rocky shores, with the larger ship which had originally provided transportation bobbing in the uneasy swells. Half a dozen knights wearing the king's colours and swords at their side approached, none too easy as Adam felt anxiety well up in the back of his throat at their gazes.

"Lord Baelish," spoke Ser Mandon, his grey eyes lifeless as the wind swept the smell of dung upon them. "By the king's order, you are under arrest for crimes against the crown."

"What?" Adam panicked, as the knights moved closer, but he made no move to prevent their dragging him into the small boat. If they had expected Littlefinger to pull a fast one, they kept their grim satisfaction on their faces that such a culprit was easy to catch.

Adam was miserable on the small boat, hailing to of the larger one in which he was locked in a storeroom, with a guard posted outside. He had gathered from their talk that they had ridden from the capital to Gulltown, where they had purchased use of the ship.

_Why would Max arrest me?_ Adam thought desperately.

Surely not for the Lannister coup! Had something happened to break the Tyrell alliance?

He wondered if the absence of a message from Lysa meant that she was either caught sending it, or perhaps commandeered this bit of subterfuge herself. Perhaps Jon Arryn found out about Littlefinger's crimes! But how was he to defend against such?

_Petyr Baelish did those crimes_ , Adam told himself, trying to stay warm in the cabin. _How can I defend myself against such charges when Littlefinger is guilty as sin?_

Clara/OBERYN

Clara shaded her eyes as she disembarked, feeling sick as the swarm of Pentoshi bustled to and fro, with high walled manses and Unsullied soldiers marching the streets.

In crimson scaled armor and her powerful walk, it was clear she was of House Martell. Yet all Clara needed was an inn to recuperate her energy. The trip had been miserable, and she would cross off sailing from her to-do list.

She did not lack for gold as a Prince of Dorne, and paid for a room with a view, though she dismissed the servants who hurried to help her bathe. She preferred being alone in the tub with her male body, as though she was an imposter and her real body lurked just within, just a glitch of the simulation away.

"Storm's subsided now," the sailor cheerfully told her, but she could have slapped him for that. By now, there was no way she could alert Adam in time.

"Thanks," Clara turned for the streets, where she passed a red temple and wondered if Melisandre was inside. From afar, she noticed the stare of a small boy, and he waved her over.

From within a wall of vines, he beckoned with lock and key the chains within that he bade she follow. Her grip tight on her spear, she ducked under the low archway into a garden with fountains and bushes and a statue of a young bravo in the centre.

"Prince Oberyn," spoke the voice that sounded like it had had too many pies.

Clara saw Illyrio Mopatis, his third chin hiding a fourth with his bulk moving past his large Unsullied soldiers, and professing undying loyalty in all the courtly mantra which made her yawn.

"Did the storm catch you by surprise?" Illyrio lilted in a strange accent. "I hear you have taken the position of spymaster for the Usurper. Do walk with me."

Clara knew little of Illyrio; yet she followed him all the same, through the tall hedges which bordered his not so little garden. She passed more than a few Unsullied, surprised they weren't as slim as Grey Worm.

"Eunuchs," Illyrio explained. "Not all of us can stay as limber in old age."

_Old age_ , Clara rankled at that, though the insult was meant for Oberyn.

"Yeah, I'm working for King Robert," Clara found herself saying.

"Then you are in quite the position," Illyrio pondered. "Poor Varys went down with the ship when the Lannister lion was forced out of court. How did he not manage to survive… "

"I dunno," Clara shrugged, but she knew a little. Max had got his enemies in a room and had them killed; easy enough, considering only Jaime could have killed him in an instant.

"You must meet my guests," Illyrio led her up a set of stairs into the manse, and soon she was surrounded by ornate finery to match the jeweled rings on his fingers.

"OK," Clara replied, following his gaze where a set of double doors were flanked by Unsullied.

"Let him through," Illyrio nodded, and the doors were opened.

Within, Clara found chambers fit for a prince, but no less than what she had expected from Illyrio's taste so far. Illyrio walked easily despite his girth, and bowed when a familiar, irascible face met hers. She knew she had to bow, and did it as elegantly as she had seen in a Japanese anime set in Europe.

"May I present the rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Viserys of House Targaryen."

"My - um - Your Grace," Clara stumbled a bit, hearing his sharp intake of breath at her manner, and knowing that this fool possibly wielded some power within this manse.

"Prince Oberyn," spoke Viserys, a man who brooded over who might aid his return to Westeros. "You might very well be a valuable ally in the years to come."

"Hope so," Clara replied, and his eyes narrowed like cat slits. "Where's Daenerys?"

" _Princess_ Daenerys," Illyrio calmly reminded her, though Viserys took no notice of that. The girl rushed in, harried with her silver-gold hair and worried expression speaking volumes. She looked more like a servant caught out at spilling the tea than a dragon queen.

"Where have you been?" Viserys demanded.

"Forgive me," Daenerys offered up, trying to meet Clara's eye. "Who - who is our guest?"

"Oberyn, House Martell," Clara felt like she should offer a business card. She looked at this pretender prince and his scared sister. "Are you going to war on Westeros?"

"Of course!" Viserys scoffed in surprise. "Illyrio is gathering allies as we speak. Of course, many Houses in Westeros feel the Usurper needs given his due."

"He kicked the lions out of court," Clara pointed out, wanting to be somewhat a part of the conversation whereby she might feel knowledgeable about Westeros; yet she glossed over most things but for the scenes with sullen Jon Snow.

"And replaced them with roses," Illyrio offered one from a vase to Daenerys, who looked to Viserys for confirmation before accepting with a smile. "Perhaps the Usurper means to make a final stand. The Reach offers many men who might oppose our cause."

"So we need you," Viserys decided all of a sudden, directed at Clara who surmised his whims were like those of a rich person; unpredictable and difficult to properly fulfill.

"What do you need me for?" Clara repeated. She hoped she wouldn't be put under duress to assassinate the king, her real life brother. She would escape if it came to that.

"What does the Usurper plan?" Viserys demanded, feeling left out of events even as Illyrio kept him apprised with enough to sate his curiosity, whether real or imagined. "You are in his small council meetings."

"He doesn't tell me everything," Clara could at least be honest about that. "He likes to hunt, fuck and keeps the Tyrells happy."

Even at that she felt a twinge of betrayal. Yet it was nothing that Robert didn't do, and anyone could see by the changes Max had made, of course he had to put the roses on his highest shelf.

"That's not good enough," Viserys shook his head. "Does he gather strength to oppose me? Has he - "

Viserys floundered as though hit by a mallet. He glanced to Illyrio and back to Oberyn again, his face suddenly puce, and Illyrio moved to calm one of his usual meltdowns.

"Did he send you here to assassinate me?"

"No!" Clara cried, feeling the stares of the Unsullied flanking the doors behind her. As quick as Oberyn was, she doubted she could get out unscathed. "Why else would Illyrio let me in?"

"I assure you, Your Grace," Illyrio spoke with the practised melody of a snake charmer. "Prince Oberyn comes at my request. There is a lot to be said for his influence at court."

"Y-yes," Viserys was hardly convinced, but then Clara doubted there was a night that he slept content, certain that he would roll over onto barbed knives in his sleep.

"His Grace will be grateful for any assistance you can provide," Illyrio raised an arched eyebrow.

"I'll do what I can," Clara replied, almost smartly for she had no intention of returning to Essos with the clock ticking down. She nodded and bowed once more, and was escorted to the door by plump Unsullied soldiers.

Max/ROBERT

"The crown calls Petyr Baelish," Jon Arryn sat to one side of the king, with Mace Tyrell on the other.

Max watched as Adam was brought to the stand, with two armed guards by his side for there was no point in adding fetters and chains.

"Lord Baelish," Jon Arryn spoke, one of the three judges as it was through his introduction that Littlefinger had won the court with his schemes. "You are charged with deceiving the crown by inflating debts and weakening the Iron Throne from behind the scenes. How do you plead?"

"Guilty," Adam spoke up, and the crowd was disquieted and then broke into silent murmurs of laughter.

Max knew that all of Littlefinger's spies and those he had blackmailed had come out of the woodwork; surprised that he had fled to the Fingers, and free to elevate their own standing by reporting on their former master. It was almost as though Littlefinger _wanted_ to be caught, Jon Arryn had said in private.

"Then you shall be sent to the black cells to await your sentence," Jon Arryn nodded, that the gaolers should escort him through the doors.

In private, the three judges met, behind closed doors guarded by members of the Kingsguard.

"It was unfortunate Baelish did not draw the matter out," Mace spoke up. "There were plenty of witnesses to further bring him down."

"No," Jon Arryn replied. "He has had his day in court. He pleaded guilty and so the sentence must be considered. Your Grace?"

"Remembered me, did you?" Max burned with hatred. "I say he goes to the Wall."

"The Wall?" Jon Arryn echoed his former ward's statement, while Mace blustered.

"He deserves the executioner's axe!" Mace exclaimed.

"If he goes to the Wall," Jon Arryn tried to draw neutral ground. "He can hardly be trusted to be in any sort of administrative capacity. His talents don't stretch as far as ranging."

"That's for the Watch to decide," Max said, who didn't care if Adam scrubbed chamber pots so long as he got to live.

"Does Petyr still command your loyalty?" Mace turned to the king. "He betrayed the Lannisters as he betrayed you even earlier on, Your Grace. He should be sent to the block!"

"No," Max said with quiet fury, finding the words all the same. "I am the king, and he will go to the Wall."

"I say not," Mace replied, turning to Jon Arryn. "As final arbiter of this deadlock, what say you, my lord?"

Jon Arryn had negotiated peace with Dorne and kept the Seven Kingdoms from going bankrupt during Robert's lengthy pleasure trip on the Iron Throne; he would not kowtow merely on the basis of pleasing the king or the crown's largest creditor.

"Baelish seems repentant," Jon admitted. "For the schemes he's concocted, he's certainly left himself wide open to be found. I am persuaded he is remorseful and his departure the only way he knew how to extricate himself from the guilt, if not covering up his crimes."

Mace could only agree with that. Only a fool could have left himself so wide open to attack. Yet why did he not front up with his crimes and be arrested with some honor?

"Had Baelish pleaded otherwise and attempted to turn the court into a circus, I would be convinced to send him to the block even as the evidence would compel his sentence," Jon concluded. "And so I must concur with the king on this matter."

Zoe/CATELYN

Zoe watched as the carriage brought Grace forth underneath the curtain gate into Winterfell. A dozen of the king's men rode with her, alongside some Stark men who looked happy to be home.

Grace was helped out of the carriage and gently touched down, one hand to the bump which was visible as anything. She may as well have been shoplifting a melon under her gown.

"Sansa," Zoe made the first move, moving forth to hug Grace, glad to have her home.

"I'm so glad to be home," Grace whispered, though it wasn't out of character for Sansa to say so. It was a measure of her desperation to have friendly faces around her, though she was to be disappointed yet again.

"Let me handle everything," Zoe whispered back, and helped Grace walk to where Eddard stood with the children.

"Sansa," Eddard looked graver than usual, but embraced his daughter all the same. Robb was of his father's mood; Bran and Rickon had the usual inquisitive questions for their age; Arya looked a little stunned and Jon Snow his usual sour self.

"Where's - " Grace paused, locking eyes with Theon. He sported a black eye and limped a little in pain to where the gathering was taking place. If disdain was cast upon Sansa, hateful stares followed Theon. "Hi."

"Take it inside," Zoe advised, and in her tone of finality the crowd began to disperse. She led the Starks inside; she herself one if not a Tully. Theon was pushed to the side as Grace answered questions, and Zoe watched the kraken with expectation than suspicion.

"You'll look after her and the baby from now on," Zoe had instructed Theon in no uncertain terms, once he had come forward as the father. He had been hit around by Robb and later Jon until Zoe had called them off, only by virtue of his conduct towards Grace not being animalistic. "Is that understood?"

"I suppose," Theon replied sourly. He was fine with being Sansa's husband, but now with Robb and Jon's hostile looks he could not bear to live in Winterfell.

Zoe understood all this; but was intent on making Theon a husband more active than some lords in Westeros. If he thought sleeping in Grace's bed and spending days riding and archery was the duties of a husband, she would make sure he redirected that energy towards massaging Grace's shoulders and being at attendance. Whether Theon loved Grace or not was not going to change Zoe's mind on this line of inquiry.

"Good," Zoe turned to Grace, who was aglow at the attention, even if there was the elephant in the room. "Sansa, could I have a word, please?"

Grace's bedchamber was more or less the same, but with her trunk from the capital and Septa Mordane hanging up her clothes.

"Septa," Zoe told her at once, whose eyes had inspected Grace's bulk with silent disapproval. "You will assist Sansa through this difficult process."

"Of course," Septa Mordane had resolved to be efficient, but from her own experience to lecture with passive-aggressive subtly about the profound mistake Sansa had made. She would make sure of that. "If you'll excuse me."

"Are you happy to have me back?" Grace met Zoe's gaze, hoping she would approve.

"You love him," Zoe stated, not asked. "And he didn't force himself on you."

"No," Grace said softly. "I mean, well, it just happened. And he treated me nice. I think Theon likes Sansa, and I'm a nicer sort of Sansa… "

_You're a doormat_ , Zoe wanted to say, but she wasn't that type of girl. Theon admittedly had a sort of charm, if you weren't readily prepared for such silly teenage antics.

"He moved in on you because you were approachable all of a sudden," Zoe pointed out.

"Yeah," Grace shrugged, still looking to Zoe for approval. "Is that bad?"

"He knows what he needs to do," Zoe said. "I'll make sure he looks after you. Whether he loves you or not, he's going to be part of this baby's life."

"Will he stay faithful?" Grace asked, ticking off the list of requirements she wanted in a husband, even one only mildly disposed to being with her, even for a baby.

"Probably not," Zoe admitted. "But having Robb around might keep him so."

"OK," Grace considered. "I mean, I guess if he finds someone he likes more than me… "

"I mean to have him understand his new responsibility," Zoe said. "Ned thought so, too."

"What do you mean?" Grace asked.

"You will wed Theon," Zoe replied, as Grace began to protest, not wanting reality to bring her dreams crashing down. "Ned insisted on it, and you'll need to in this land."

"But - " Grace worried the dynamic between her and Theon would change; as a romance it was fine, but as a marriage she might be expected to perform even when she didn't want to.

"I'll make sure he treats you right," Zoe repeated. "But we have to go through with it all the same."

Grace/SANSA

Grace beamed to see Theon as she walked down the aisle, supported by Ned who if he was shamed by the arrangement, his dour features hid it well. Zoe glared at anybody who whispered or tittered; as far as she was concerned, they could all go to hell.

Grace was removed of the grey direwolf maiden's cloak and a black kraken sewn in gold was placed around her shoulders. It seemed just a sombre event; not just that the air was chilly before the godswood, but that all of Ned's household and some of his vassals had turned out, to see Ned's daughter brought low; wed to a ward and hostage. It did not trouble many of their minds to figure that Sansa might one day be Lady of Pyke one day.

Grace gingerly knelt before the godswood, her condition apparent to all. Her head bowed as was Theon's, and she hoped he wouldn't change. In her mind, he was a romantic; when in his, he would grow bored at any rate. The idea she had in her mind of how he was remained constant; they said men never changed after marriage, so Grace was content this was what they meant. Theon would be a good husband, she resolved, helped to her feet by him with a smile which she took as the nod to her inner feelings. She beamed and glanced out to the sour, dour, northern lot whose opinions she hoped would keep hidden under the snow.

Adam/PETYR

Adam knew he was confined in the second level of the dungeons, for the sparseness of accommodations yet without the grime and nitre of the black cells which would've otherwise hemmed him in like Ned Stark had once been, or Tyrion in another time.

Without martial ability, the guards did not expect him to escape yet still, one of his guards wore the Tyrell rose on his surcoat, and Adam knew the vines had lashed fast over the Red Keep.

_It's all my fault_ , Adam moaned. _I bought the Tyrells in, and left the evidence of Littlefinger's machinations like breadcrumbs for ravens to spy._

Even as he knew his life was spared for now, the Wall might not be so forgiving. Physical labor was beyond him; it would show, and he would weep red tears of shame, yet all the same he knew he would piss himself on the executioner's block.

Harsh knocks came to the cell door and Adam sprung back, manacled by the legs though not to the wall so in the madness of an escape he might not go far. The Baratheon guard watched by the Tyrell soldier brought in a tray of food; a steaming chicken and a trencher of bread, no doubt the king's gift; no doubt Max had managed to keep him safe.

"Thank you," Adam choked, so glad he could keep his life. The end of this simulation would not drag on long enough for Max to hem and haw about the final sentence.

He could be glad for the sparse light through the high window, and still smell King's Landing even down here. He thought of Max putting a baby in Margaery, and Clara learning how to fit in being a man alongside that of the Martell agenda. He wondered about how the northerners would treat Grace, bearing Theon's bastard child; and a warmth flowed through him at the first bite of chicken at the knowledge that Zoe, stalwart, would keep Grace safe. So enthused to eat proper food was he that he didn't bother to chew, and felt a sharp stabbing pain in his throat, clutching at his neck.

"Guard!" he could all but hoarsely whisper, or was it a dream, when he seemed to still as though in frozen mid motion, the AI of a game character when unsure of which route to take, frozen in perpetuity, until the black concealed his eyes and he flung down the remnants of his food as immobile and unconscious of mental ability and a mute.

Max/ROBERT

"An accident," Grand Maester Gormon pronounced. "Choked on a chicken bone."

Max drummed his fingers on the table at the small council meeting. His piggy eyes leered across to Mace Tyrell, who could not conceal his delight that _some_ justice had been directed Littlefinger's way. Maester Gormon was sensible; but a Tyrell, nonetheless.

"A chicken bone," Max repeated. He had been in this room, facing spymasters better than these. "Not poison?"

"Poison is a woman's weapon," Grand Maester Gormon clasped his hands together, and Max knew that the Tyrells were a united front. Even Margaery, so fair and delicate, sat unassuming by his side; the Tyrells had won, and Max very much doubted Adam would choke on a chicken bone; even as clumsy and foolish as he was, perhaps despite.

Fear and suspicion clouded his judgement. He wanted to have off their heads; if for nothing more than to command the presence and with the certainty he had had with Adam by his side. But now he relied on them; only so he could bed the Tyrell rose, who was learning to manipulate him as time had gone on.

Max glanced out to the balcony where Clara was still missing from a storm at sea; he wished he had gone with her, to fight battles like a sellsword and bed whores all day. Ruling was hard work, on that Max could agree with Robert - and no amount of hard training had reduced the swell in his belly enough that he could compete with a Dothraki.

Max's eyes lit up that but a fortnight would cause the close of this epic; that in real life he would remain a tubby virgin, except he had learned not to wear horse blinders and reach for the highest rose on the stem and hesitate afterward lest he fall on the thorns.


End file.
